Theo wasn’t surprised
when he pulled up to his parent’s house to find the driveway full
of cars and both sides of the street lined with cars. There was one
spot open, undoubtedly reserved for him, and that was beside his
father’s old F-150 on the driveway. He parked his Mustang. Upon
shutting off the engine he could hear the party. Loud music and
laughter, loud conversations. Someone spied him on the other side of
the living room window and announced, “He’s here!”

Theo
adjusted his neck-tie with a grin, combed his fingers through his
hair and jaunted up the single step of the porch, opened the door.
Tonight he was the center of attention, the main attraction; everyone
clapped. A large banner stretched across the living room wall reading
Congrats Theo! Go Stanford! On the seventy-inch Plasma TV was the
game, The Fiesta Bowl, where Stanford had bested Oregon mightily
39-17, a game that Theo played in less than twenty-four hours ago.

His
mother hugged him, kissed his cheek and pulled back, stared at him as
a proud mother would, and said she loved him.

“Thanks,
mom, for this. I love you, too.”

His
father was next. James shook his hand first, gazed admiringly at him,
pulled him into an embrace and patted his back. “Congratulations,
son.”

His
best friend Chad Ziegler, affectionately referred to as Zee, handed
him a beer, raised his own and said amid the crowded living room, “To
the country’s premier quarterback, Theo Graham, who punished the
rotten Oregonians, and who will undoubtedly be drafted in the first
round next year.” He looked at Theo conspiratorially and said under
his breath: “Or maybe this year…? May you have a long and
illustrative career in the NFL, my friend.”